


Someone's in the Kitchen With Dinah

by lightsaroundyourvanity



Category: Agent Carter (TV), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: F/F, Femslash February, Fingerfucking, Girls Kissing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-02
Updated: 2015-02-02
Packaged: 2018-03-10 05:24:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,465
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3278363
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lightsaroundyourvanity/pseuds/lightsaroundyourvanity
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Peggy and Angie break into the automat after hours.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Someone's in the Kitchen With Dinah

"You cook, English?"

Peggy has to stifle a laugh. Most of her life has been in study, in training, in the military. Learning how to crack codes, how to turn herself out properly, how to beat a man senseless and how to make sure that others will follow her command. She prepared food rarely, rations over cookfires, meant to be mixed with boiling water and swallowed down begrudgingly.  Entertaining a palate has never been high on Peggy's skillset.

So no, she doesn't cook.

"I never learned," Peggy says casually. "Who's got the time?"

"Most girls!" Angie replies. She sounds scandalized, but her eyes are twinkling. "How will you take care of your husband otherwise?"

"Ah." Peggy raises an eyebrow. "Can't say I've put too much thought into that."

"You and me both," Angie says, grinning. "But I worked in a crummy diner before I moved to New York. Worst tips I'd ever seen, but I did learn to make a burger that'll make you sing."

"You worked... in the kitchen?" Peggy asks delicately.

Angie shrugs. "It was a small place. And with the war..." 

She trails off, but Peggy thinks she understands. The war was awful, but it was a time of opportunity for women like Angie, and when the men had started coming home, those opportunities started to disappear. Even for Peggy. Once, she painted her lips red for battle, for her country. Now, it's a slash in the grey to remind everybody that she's sticking around.

"Well. Anyway." Angie shakes off the trace of gloom. "It all worked out, right? I got to come to New York and chase Broadway and all. And hey, I got to meet you." Angie smiles so wide her nose wrinkles, and Peggy can't help but smile back.

"Yes you did," she murmurs. Peggy feels a giddy buzz when Angie flirts with her like this, but guilt and sick worry still gnaw at its heels. The people close to her don't survive. The people she love become weapons in enemy hands.

She's not saying she's in love with Angie or something daft like that. She's not some starry eyed teenager mooning over the pretty actress who lives down the hall. But she has that gut feeling with Angie, the one that tells her they could fit. She's had it with men before; with women, occasionally; with Steve, stronger than anybody she'd ever known.

"Hey." Angie sits up on her elbows. "I can show you the ropes, how to crack an egg, you know. We could go right now."

Angie is one of those girls who is always in motion. Peggy likes to think that she is too, but she still feels startled by Angie's exuberance sometimes. It throws her off balance, which she's unused to. She wonders if it would be so easy for Angie to unnerve her if she didn't have such a lovely smile. She has a sneaking suspicion that the answer is no. 

"Downstairs?" Peggy asks, thinking of the gloomy kitchens of the hotel.

Angie flaps a hand dismissively. "Oh, no way. That place stinks." Her face lights up. "We'll go to the automat!"

"Won't it be closed?" Peggy asks innocently.

She's rewarded with Angie's smirk, her cocked eyebrow. "That's half the fun. Come on. It'll be great."

 

 

The automat is dark when they arrive. Angie shivers and rubs her hands up and down her arms. The night has been brisk.

Peggy is fine in her coat. Briefly, she imagines herself wrapping it around them both, huddling close to Angie, ostensibly for warmth, realistically so they can breathe each other's air.

Angie reaches into her pocketbook, and jingles her keys, and the moment is gone. She fishes them out, and her face falls. "Oh, damn! I don't have a key!"

"What?" asks Peggy. She graciously doesn't point out that Angie is holding a ring full of keys.

Angie looks faintly embarrassed. "We changed the locks a few weeks back," she explains. "I still haven't traded in my key. Oh, hell, I can't believe I forgot! I'm sorry, Peggy. I brought you all the way out here for nothing."

Peggy knows that what she does next is irresponsible. It's showing her hand too closely, and it's probably a bad idea. But she hates to see that guilty, disappointed expression on Angie's face-- and alright, perhaps she wants to show off a little bit. Peggy's expertise isn't exactly in flirty party tricks, and sometimes a girl's gotta seize her own opportunities.

"Chin up," Peggy says with a wink. She brushes past Angie and unfastens the brooch from the lapel of her coat. She bends the pin of the brooch into a tiny hook with her teeth, inserts it into the metal grooves of the lock, and starts jiggling.

"English," Angie sounds impressed, and Peggy feels a smug jolt of pride. "How downright criminal of you."

Peggy glances over her shoulder. "We all have our hobbies."

"You didn't pick that up at the phone company," Angie points out. Peggy wonders if there's ulterior suggestion there, like Angie is letting Peggy know that she knows that she is not all that she seems. Then again, she could be imagining things.

"You don't know that," Peggy replies, opting for lighthearted deflection. "Maybe I have a habit of losing my keys, too." The lock clicks, and the door to the unlit restaurant swings open. "Ladies first," she tells Angie with a nod of her head.

"I don't think you've forgotten a thing in your life," Angie comments as she brushes by. Peggy doesn't answer. She follows Angie inside.

The automat looks different in the dark. Tables and booths loom more ominously than Peggy remembers having ever seen them, and the light that bounces off the long bartop counter is bruised. Angie tiptoes past the round stools like she's afraid to wake them. Peggy follows, at a noisier pace. There are times for subterfuge, and there are times when it's a waste of time. Peggy has learned to tell the difference. She takes up space when she can. 

"This way," Angie calls over her shoulder. She disappears through the swinging double doors that lead to the kitchen. Peggy follows. Her heels echo where they click.

The kitchen is better and worse than Peggy expects. Not as dirty, which is blessing, since she eats here regularly, but also much more cramped. She supposes that at an automat less full fledged meals needed to be cooked, but it surprises her nonetheless.

Angie walks to the industrial fridge and pulls the door open. "What'll you have?" she asks Peggy. "Eggs? I make good eggs."

"As long as they're not powdered," Peggy says dryly, and Angie laughs.

"Okay, a pass on the eggs. Any requests?"

"I'm alright," says Peggy. She leans against the counter and braces her palms against its surface.

Angie wrinkles her nose. "You're no fun, you know that English? C'mon. I invited you here to show off. Indulge me."

Peggy cracks a smile. "I'm quite impressed, I assure you." She thinks it's funny that she'd sought a roundabout way to brag to Angie without saying so, while Angie just states it plain. Angie wears her heart and her brain and her soul on her sleeve, and Peggy both admires and envies her for it. 

She also thinks it might be dangerous that they're working to impress each other at all. Steer clear of attachments, Peggy reminds herself, but it's getting harder and harder to remember why.

"But I don't want you just _quite impressed_ ," says Angie. She walks closer to Peggy. "I want you to be extremely impressed. Stunned. Flabbergasted. Twitterpated, even."

Angie doesn't stop moving until she's toe to toe with Peggy, and Peggy arches her brow. "Twitterpated?" she asks. 

"You know, like in the movie. Don't tell me you never saw Bambi."

"I heard it was trite," says Peggy. Truthfully, she'd been in the war at the time. Nobody was watching cartoons.

"It wasn't!" Angie protests. "It was a real gas. Kinda sad though. But I love going to the pictures, you know? They make me feel all--"

"Twitterpated?" Peggy suggests.

"Something like that," Angie replies. And then she kisses Peggy, full on the mouth.

At first, Peggy wonders how she hadn't noticed that Angie had edged so far into her space. She's used to being efficiently aware of her surroundings. Angie makes her stupid, and Peggy is shocked. And then wildly, frantically excited. Her heart hammers her ribcage and her grip tightens on the edge of the counter and she wants to kiss Angie back with her whole body, with her hands, with her hips. Angie's lips are a question answered, a promise fulfilled. It's a rush that Peggy wants to drink in, even knowing that Angie makes her...

Stupid. Damn. This is stupid now, kissing in an empty kitchen in the middle of the night, past curfew, on mission, who knows what kinds of enemies waiting in the wings. Because there's always something, isn't there? And Peggy always makes it out, because she has to. But girls like Angie? They become collateral, and it breaks Peggy's heart each time.

So Peggy stiffens, and pulls back.

Hurt flares in Angie's eyes right away. Her hands, which had come to rest on Peggy's waist, drop back to her sides. Angie bites her lip, and Peggy wants to reach out to her, to stroke her cheek or something equal soft. But that would be counterintuitive,  so she swallows the dry lump that's grown in her throat instead.  

"I'm sorry." Angie is already backing off. "I thought that maybe--" she flinches. "Look, just don't _tell_ anyone, don't say anything, okay? Please?"

Angie looks hopeless. Peggy doesn't think she's ever seen Angie look completely hopeless before. Angie is radiant, infectious. And Peggy hates that she can make Angie look so small, especially when she'd enjoyed the kiss immensely.

Before Peggy can really think about what she's doing, she surges forward and kisses Angie. Their mouths crash together, and Angie makes a muffled noise ( _English_!) before her hands slide into Peggy's hair and tangle there, and Peggy holds Angie by the waist and pulls their bodies closer together.

Angie's lips are soft, and they part softly, and Peggy's mouth follows. When their tongues touch, Peggy could groan at the taste of Angie. Sweet. And then at Angie's teeth, nipping her lower lip, and at Angie's body, which leans into Peggy until Peggy hops onto the counter behind her.

Peggy wraps her legs around Angie's hips and urges her closer. Angie crowds in. She braces one palm on the counter and her free arm snakes around Peggy.  They're twisted together now, limb for limb, and their kisses grow thicker and louder. Peggy rubs against Angie, and Angie rolls her hips, and Peggy nearly whimpers.

This is crazy, and it's reckless-- and Peggy doesn't care anymore. She's tired of being cautious and lonely, and it's never been her nature anyway, not really. And she's tired of denying the pull between her and Angie, which licks hotter than ever at her skin right now, urging, _wanting_.

Angie's hands roam Peggy's body. One slides up Peggy's leg, past the lacy top of her stocking, and Peggy feels Angie's fingertips play against the bare flesh of her inner thigh. Her breath draws in sharp, anticipating.

Angie breaks away. "Am I going too fast?" she asks. "I'm sorry. This is just-- you're so--"

Peggy sits up and grabs Angie by the collar of her dress. She drags Angie towards her and their foreheads bump together, a little awkward, sweet nonetheless. "You talk too much, Yankee," Peggy says, and kisses Angie again. She feels Angie laugh into her mouth.

Angie's fingers slip underneath the creamy silk of Peggy's underwear, and when she runs one fingertip between the slick lips of Peggy's cunt, Peggy lets out a tiny sound, and then a full throated groan when Angie sinks two fingers inside her.

"God Peggy, your voice," Angie murmurs.

"I-- I'll sing for you sometime," Peggy babbles, and punctuates with a curse when Angie's fingers start to pump inside her. Her hips rise to meet Angie's hand, and her pants eke themselves into moans as Angie fucks her steadily, and then relentlessly. The pads of her fingertips rub against the walls of Peggy's cunt with every thrust, and it sends shivery pleasure rippling through Peggy.

They kiss needily and frenetically between gasps and thrusts, pressing lips to lips and to jawlines and to throats. Peggy's passion grows loose and artless, until she can only writhe, and moan for Angie to keep going, keep going, _keep going._  

Angie complies. Her thumb skates over Peggy's clit and Peggy feels desire spike through her; she tightens her thighs around Angie's waist and her head falls back. Peggy can feel sweat-damp curls sticking to her forehead, and Angie kisses the  bared column of her throat and rubs Peggy's clit again, in quick, circular motions, until Peggy's hips are bucking of their own volition, and she can feel her whole body trembling, and she knows she's close to coming.

Peggy clutches Angie's shoulders when she does come a moment later, loud and unapologetic. A sunburst of heat and pleasure bursts inside Peggy, and Angie milks her through it, her fingers slow and gentle, her mouth on Peggy's wet and breathing hard. They stay close, entwined, while their breath evens and Peggy's tremors fade and subside, foreheads bent together, close enough to touch.  Angie slips out of Peggy and Peggy feels sudden loss; Angie kisses her softly on the mouth and she feels whole again.

When Angie pulls away ( _too soon_ , Peggy thinks,) Peggy studies her face. Angie's eyes are wide and glassy, her pupils overblown. Her mouth and her cheeks and her jaw are all smeared carmine. She looks lush, and very, very sexy, and though Peggy can feel tired satiation creeping into her bones, she still wants Angie, badly.

Peggy hops off the counter and straightens out her skirt. She winds her arms around Angie's neck. "Come on," she says, "Let's go back to the hotel." In the back of her mind, Peggy adds something about moving quickly, because she has plans to bury herself between Angie's thighs and not leave for quite some time when they get back. 

Angie leans in towards Peggy. "What about the cooking?" she asks.

"We can eat at home," replies Peggy, and the crude entendre is not lost on Angie, who smirks. 

"Lead the way, English," says Angie, and the two of them fumble their way out.

Peggy doesn't check the doors after they leave. It's sloppy, but her head is spinning, and she's thrown her sense of caution to the wind anyway. She plans to leave it there for the night.

 


End file.
